


Eternal and Unyielding

by erunamiryene



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, author has shrugged off the chains of posting a full work, death knights are very Extra and I love it, nothing but ficlets for miles, probably fluff at points, probably not canon-compliant, probably not in chronological order either, shenanigans with people who are 200 percent done, tags and characters added as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 01:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16398686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erunamiryene/pseuds/erunamiryene
Summary: All serve. Some in life, some in death, some in undeath.Once you hit undeath, you lose a lot of the stress you carried around in life.All my collected WoW ficlets; most are gonna be shippy, most are going to be non-chronological, connection to canon will be tenuous at best because I'm just here to have some fun.





	1. [Legion] The Speech

Syandre, seated atop Kaladir, surveys the assembled Order.

“Knights of the Ebon Blade!” 

Her voice rises over the snorting horses, the groans of ghouls and constructs, the scattered conversations that die out when she speaks, the rime of undeath infusing bone-deep chill into each word. Even Khadgar and Maiev, standing together on a bluff overlooking the knights, straighten a little more. 

“We escaped the grasping madness of Arthas five years ago. Since then, we have been derided as abominations, as monsters, as a blight, and still we have stood as a bulwark against that which would threaten our world, protecting those who would see us meet our final death!” She throws an arm out, beckoning to the ravaged landscape behind her. “The Legion thinks they've already won! They think they've driven the people of Azeroth to their knees!” 

A humorless smile lifts the corners of Syandre's mouth. 

“But the Legion has never faced the full might of the Ebon Blade.”

Ferocity gleams in her ice-blue eyes. “We are war. We are pestilence. We are the chilled, uncaring grasp of eternal nothingness, and today the Legion will tremble before our power!” 

She scans the four horsemen at the front of the formation, her gaze lingering on Darion just long enough for him to incline his head toward her. He was the first to break free from Arthas, and the first to bend the knee and pledge his loyalty when she became Deathlord of the Ebon Blade. 

She would have no other at her back. 

Planting her feet in the stirrups, she stands. “Knights of the Ebon Blade! Will you follow your Horsemen, bringing death to all who oppose your will?” 

A mighty _yes, Deathlord!_ rises into the air, startling fel-tinged birds from their roosts atop the command center. 

Darion wheels his horse around. “Knights! Will you follow your Deathlord into the very maw of hell itself?” 

The thunderous _yes, Highlord!_ that follows this is little more than a roar, accompanied by stamping horses and cheering. 

Syandre thrusts Apocalypse into the air. “Knights, we ride! For battle, for victory, for Azeroth!” 

*

At the pinnacle of Icecrown Citadel, the ghost of a smile touches the scarred, burning mouth of the Lich King.


	2. [Legion] Flowers

_I was a horticulturalist like my father, before I took up my sword and went to fight in Outland._ Syandre’s gaze had been far away and wistful the night she’d divulged this information. _Sometimes I think I miss it._

He may be the only one who's actually seen the Deathlord of the Ebon Blade carefully tending flowers, watching new shoots spring up from seeds with an expression akin to tenderness, Darion muses as he stoops to inspect the icy blue flower next to his boot. 

She doesn’t have this one. 

Darion stands, looks around, and finally flags down an elf dressed very much like someone who knows more information than he’d ever need about flowers would dress. “You there. What is this?” 

The elf's mouth falls open and for a moment all she does is blink rather owlishly at him. “Uh… Highlord… it's a flower?”

Is it all the living who are so insufferable? Just druids? Just elves? Perhaps his tolerance has shrunk to near-extinction? As if he doesn't know what a damn flower is. 

For a moment, he idly wonders just what sort of rumors go around about death knights … but that’s a musing for another time. Or never, given the flights of fancy some of these people are prone to.

“Yes. I can see that much,” he growls, and if he deepens the chill in his words, who could blame him? “Clearly I should have been more specific. What _type_ of flower is it? No doubt some ridiculous Guild of Happy Scrappy Flowerpicking has been cataloging everything with petals since our arrival on the Broken Shore.”

She swallows hard, clearly fighting the urge to take a step away from him. “I believe that's called winter's kiss, Highlord.” The desire to be accurate wins out over her trepidation, and she crouches, examining the flower more carefully. “Yes.” She stands. “You can tell by the deeper blue near the center and the lacy edges reminiscent of frost on a windowpane.”

“Hmph.” 

_That blue reminds me of her eyes._

The druid is still there, watching him with questions in her eyes, and he doesn’t want to find out what those questions are. “Begone!” he commands, waving a hand. She snaps a bow and scurries off without another word.

She also deems it prudent to not mention it when Highlord Darion Mograine trots by on Iydallus later that afternoon, several winter's kiss blossoms peeking out of a saddlebag.


	3. [BfA] This Is Not Our War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because no matter how I look at it, I can’t see the Ebon Blade choosing a side in BfA. So Syandre doesn't.

Anduin Wrynn seems to have inherited a kingdom perpetually in crisis, always running to stave off the next looming disaster, and Syandre regards him with an expression almost akin to pity on her sharply defined features.

“The Knights of the Ebon Blade will assist in what ways we can in Kul Tiras, but we will also assist in what ways we can in Zandalar. You know that we have been factionless from our inception. Just from our delegation, you can see that we cannot choose a side in this war without irreparably breaking our order, and that is something I cannot countenance.”

Her voice brooks no argument; she gets one anyway, from just behind Anduin.

“If you’re not with us, you are traitors and will be treated as such!”

Syandre doesn’t even spare Genn a glance, interrupting before he can continue. “Calm your barking dog, Majesty.”

“Barking dog! I will not suffer -”

She shifts her gaze, now frigid as Icecrown, to the older man. She doesn’t acknowledge that more than one of the Horsemen behind her has shifted into a combat ready stance at even this hint of threat. “You will, because to live is to suffer!” When he doesn’t speak further, she turns back to Anduin. “I will not pit my knights one against another. I will not force my Horsemen to choose sides. Both the Horde and Alliance have made their position on our existence very well known. You want us to fight the Legion, wish to wield us as your untiring sword, but you barely tolerate us on your streets, despite our continued and unwavering devotion to saving Azeroth.”

Anduin studies the map on the table, deep in thought. Truth be told, he _had_ been counting on the unified might of the Blade, given how so many of the other orders had fallen apart in the wake of Sylvanas’ attack and the subsequent battle at Lordaeron. Still, Syandre hasn’t given him an outright no, and perhaps something may still be salvaged from this. “You would help the people of Kul Tiras.”

“And Zandalar.”

“And Zandalar. But you will not actively serve the war on either side.”

Syandre nods. “Those who wish to do so will relinquish their membership in this order, and will not fall under the aegis of my authority. They will be cast out, once again alone, and I assure you there are startlingly few of us who wish to be more isolated than we already find ourselves.”

Anduin nods. “I had hoped the unity we found when the Burning Legion invaded would last, but perhaps there is too much bad blood on both sides for that to ever be a possibility. Your terms are accepted, Deathlord. I will not call upon your order for anything other than what we have agreed upon.”

Syandre bows. “I am pleased we came to an accord, Majesty. We shall ready our forces for departure.”


	4. [BfA] In a Baking Mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt on Tumblr, death knights making cookies. xD

Leaves crunch under warmly lined boots as Syandre and Darion stroll arm in arm through the streets of Stormwind, the chilly autumn breeze making the hems of their hooded cloaks dance. They cross another bridge and find themselves amid tidy, well-kept homes on the periphery of the Mage Quarter. In some, unattended brooms sweep cobblestones; others boast flower gardens in riots of color, encouraged by various weather magics. 

Sy opens the purple picket fence of one such house, smiling at the tamed lashers wandering around the yard, then knocks on the door. 

A faint explosion inside, then the unmistakable tingle of raw magic, and a gnome opens the door. Silvery safety goggles obscure her eyes, and her deep pink hair has been hastily gathered into two … explosions on top of her head, for lack of a better word, and she’s grinning like she didn’t just obliterate something in her house.

“Syandre!” She looks from Sy to Darion. “Aaaaand?” The gnome steps forward and peers upward, trying to see past Darion’s hood. “Is this him?”

Darion cocks a brow, looks at Syandre. “’Him’? What have you told her?”

“Nothing!” Sy says, too quickly. “Kima Sparkspell, this is Highlord Darion Mograine. But this isn’t a titled visit.”

“Of course it isn’t!” As fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky, she shivers. “I know you two don’t get cold, but I’m freezing my spells off. Come in!” 

The two death knights obey her cheerful command, dutifully removing boots and cloaks in the entryway, then following her through the cozy home to a brightly lit kitchen. Ingredients are neatly laid out on one counter; smoke drifts from under a closed door on the far side of the room. 

“I’m in a baking mood, so I hope you guys are ready to make cookies!”

Darion can’t help himself. “Did the last batch not go so well?”

A briefly quizzical expression flashes across her face before she chuckles. “Oh, that! Spell amplification gone wrong. It’s nothing new, nor particularly dangerous, at least not to anyone not around when it happens.” She grins. “And also why I live here; that sort of thing might draw too much attention outside the Mage Quarter.” She flips pages in a recipe book until she finds what she’s looking for. “Ah, here we are. So Syandre, I want you to get the wet ingredients together, and Darion, the dry ingredients. And since it’s for the holiday, I suppose we can bake them in the shape of skulls.”

–

“Highlord, you have flour on your face.” Syandre swipes a fingerful of white powder off Darion’s cheekbone. “How did you manage this?”

“Yes, well … you have frosting on yours, Deathlord.” It’s a weak retort, and he knows it; all he can do now is hope she’ll just let him lose and move on with the conversation.

Kima looks from one to the other as she stuffs another cookie into her mouth. “These cookies are delicious!” she says … or at least that’s what Syandre _thinks_ she says, since it comes out in a crumb-covered mumble. She chews, swallows, and then grins. “Do you death knights bake often? You’re very good at it. I’m going to have you over to make my Winter Veil cookies, too … although those skulls will have to wear proper holiday finery.” She nudges Sy. “I could come to Acherus. You’ve never had me over to visit. It’s terribly bad manners, you know.”

“Do you really want her and Amal’thazad conspiring?” Darion asks, leaning close enough for only Syandre to hear. “Acherus might not survive.”

“Of course we’ll make Winter Veil cookies,” Syandre says to Kima, “but I’m sure I’ll visit before then. That’s much too long to go without coming to see what you’re working on.”


End file.
